Ernest W. Hughes, Flight Engineer - 171 Sqn, North Creake, RAF 100 Group, Bomber Command
I first met Taffy at Holme on Spalding Moor when we were with 76 Squadron. I was known as ‘Ginger’ (being a redhead). Taffy was Flight Engineer and I the Rear Gunner. Together with our crew we completed 31 operations.
Our first op was 75 years ago on 21 June 1943 to Krefeld. We were blessed to have survived ops on targets such as Cologne, Berlin, Hamburg and Peenemunde to name but a few. We didn’t always return unscathed, but we got back in one piece due in large part to our beloved Skipper Johnny Hodson.
Taffy always knew more ladies than me … he was taller and milder
mannered than I was. We were both basically loners, but of our crew, the two of us chummed together and shared many happy times. We were both keen to listen to music, have a pint and tease each other. I think I annoyed him on a few occasions when I would imitate Gene Krupa’s drumming, usually while Taffy was sitting quietly or writing letters!
Once when we were in the City of York, we stayed too long in the pub and missed the last bus back to the base. So, we started walking the approximate five miles. At the River Ouse, I thought Taffy should construct a raft for us as he was the Engineer. Needless to say, after a couple of pints, trial and error, plus our lack of building skills, the ‘raft’ didn’t float and the non-swimmer ended up in the river (not me!). Contrary to popular belief, I did not push him!!
On another occasion, Taffy lost his flying boots. He set them down and forgot where he put them. Through the years, being a good friend, I wouldn’t let him forget about losing his boots again!
After our first tour ended, we both joined different Squadrons and lost touch. Fortunately, 60 years later, in 2003, we reconnected through 76 Squadron Association. We kept in contact from then on by letter, but mostly by phone. I immigrated to Canada in 1947 and Taffy was residing in Aberystwyth. We were separated by an ocean, but our ties to each other never weakened. We shared many enjoyable telephone conversations and shared memories over the last 15 years. Sadly, we never reunited in person.
Taffy was well educated, an excellent mechanic, always kind and pleasant. He was a prolific writer, having written many books of poetry, a history of the Welsh people, etc. He was very proud of his Welsh heritage. Through his writing, he literally met many people from all around the world.
We will miss you but will never forget you.
Ernest W. Hughes … my crew mate, my friend.
God Bless you, Taffy.
Bombs away RAF!
Left: Ernie ‘Taffy’ Hughes. Right: Jim ‘Ginger’ Fawcett
by Ginger (Jim) Fawcett (Canada)
FIRST OPERATION
It is 50 years that have flown away
Though sometimes it seems but as yesterday
When we flew as a crew in a big, black kite,
At the end of a day – on the edge of night.
The longest day and the weather was fine
As we drank (in our youth) the immortal wine
Of the English air – with its scent of rose –
Its tang of freedom, but taint of foes.
It was twenty to twelve when the Skipper said –
‘Standby for take-off’ – away we fled –
A bump and a bounce and with nothing to spare
We were airborne at last on a wing and a prayer.
We crossed the coast of the ‘Land of the Free’
Then a steady climb o’er the bleak North Sea;
(What thoughts now roamed – seeking Mums and Dads!)
‘There’s the Enemy coast – Straight ahead, my lads’.
So quiet and calm was the Skipper’s voice –
He could well have said – ‘Be strong and rejoice,
For in thee, O Lord, do I put my trust …’
(A searchlight’s beam warned of ‘dust to dust’).
Now on we flew through the flak and the fear
To the Enemy’s heart, back to thoughts of a beer,
On that long descent, o’er that bleak North Sea;
On course for home and the ‘Land of the Free’.
Yes – it’s 50 years that have flown away
And, somehow, I wish it – but yesterday,
And tonight, as a crew, we would fly once more
In the fight for peace and end to war.
By Ernest W Hughes
The Welsh Poet
Taken from his book: ‘The Silver Thread’
Chosen by Jim Fawcett in memory of the 75th Anniversary of their 1st operation with 76 Squadron
I first met Ernie in Doha in 1974. We worked together as Engineers for a start-up company by the name of Gulf Helicopters Ltd. The operation was basically to provide a Helicopter service to the off-shore oil rigs overseen by the giant international Shell Oil Company.
Ernie departed Doha at the end of his two-year contract and returned to Wales. We kept in touch over the years and I considered him to be a rather special friend like no other – he had a very unique personality – easy to like and difficult to explain why.
On my return to Blighty in the year 2000 after having clocked up 28 years working overseas – Ernie and I began exchanging letters and phone calls as you do. I was gradually educated and brought up to speed with Ernie’s glorious past, in particular his time in the RAF as aircrew on the Halifax bomber and how he was lucky to come through it all having completed 43 missions on night-time raids.
Wow! He kept that one quiet all those years.
I repeat: Ernie was easy to like and difficult to explain why … now we all know – his special personality was chiselled and shaped by the wartime experiences looking for that elusive ‘Patch of Blue Sky’ to wash away the awfulness of war.
Yes, we will all miss the very modest Ernie Hughes and his fine collection of Poetry and letters that he would automatically spin from his mind like magic.
Mel Carey
My Dearest Friend Ernie,
I shall miss you more than you can ever know. Sadly, we never had the chance to meet, to talk face to face, yet shared so much during long conversations on the phone or chatting to one another through writings just as if we were sitting side by side.
I knew you for 20 years. We were comfortable with one another. We could speak so easily about every-day things just as much as the war, moving on to more personal topics. Time slipped away from us, and before we’d even spoken about half the things intended, it was time to hang up the phone, or draw the letter we were writing to a close.
I knew you as a modest man, someone who felt things deeply but couldn’t always find the words. You wrote best through poetry, and your letters often slipped into that way of speaking, like my own, in a stream of consciousness. You were a proud, very private man, and extremely independent. You had a keen sense of responsibility for his fellow man and would take on other people’s worries in an instant. A man of action, you would be seeking options available. You hated injustice. And your passion for Wales made you well-known locally, together with your endless battles for justice.
It’s the little things which trigger thoughts of you.
I recall how the phone would ring towards the end of an afternoon. You would have been baking … something you learned after your wife died. You were proud of the fact and opened the conversation with the words: ‘Come on, it’s best fresh from the oven! I’m just cutting a slice of this new recipe I’m trying out. Looks good!’ It was like being drawn into a scene from a Play happening in two places at the same time. I would immediately put the kettle on saying it was my turn, while I could hear a chair being pulled away from the table. I’d pour a mug of tea and start sipping it as you shared the fact that the slice was on the plate. ‘Mmmm … delicious!’ This was serious. No joking matter! We’d talk about the recipe for a while and you’d fill in time during the eating of another slice - because it really was that good! - with one of your many stories. The place where you lived near Devil’s Bridge intrigued me. You knew that and would send many postcards of the place. The perilous three-tiered stone bridge was a viewpoint for a waterfall that plunged into a deep, wooded gorge far below. As an independent man and a Walker, definitely with a capital ‘W’ … you would follow the treacherous path to the bottom, explaining how the waters were so steep and rapid they sculpted rocks into works of art. You would tell me, like a father to a child at bedtime, the legend behind Devil’s Bridge, and the old lady, Megan, whose cow was on the wrong side of the ravine prior to the bridge being built. The Devil, watching the concerned Megan, offered to build her a bridge and in return, the first living thing to cross would be his. The bridge was built, just as it is today, alleged to be the Devil’s work by the creation of a very different kind of feature. But crafty Megan took up some bread before leaving home, throwing crumbs for her dog to follow. She hedged with the Devil asking if it would carry her weight, to which he asked her to test it. He hoped she would come herself. But instead, she threw the bread, and the dog following the breadcrumbs, took off after it, crossing the bridge as the first living thing to do so. Hence Megan outwitted the Devil and was able to bring back her cow safely.
In later years, you hated losing your independence. We still talked and shared, but now there was frustration in your voice as you were moved into Care Homes.
I’m just pleased to have been able to talk to you a few days before you died. Stuart and I were still travelling at the time but decided to make a further attempt at contacting you, having tried a few times previously. You’d spoken with Stuart on a few occasions. He shared your passion for cricket and sent you a radio, so you could listen for yourself. This time however, you simply asked me, in a whisper, to speak the words with which I ended every conversation with you: ‘Love and hugs, Dearest Ernie. Sleep tight.’ Little did I know that they would be my final words spoken to you.
Thank you for your friendship, your support, your strength and encouragement, and for the valued conversations we shared. I feel blessed to have known you. A true Kindred Spirit. Now, finally, you are at peace.
God Bless … till we meet again xx
Janine Harrington
This article is from the Summer 2018 issue of Confound and Destroy
